Somewhere In Europe
by his-own-cumbercollective
Summary: Sherlock and John are caught up in WW2, brought together when Sherlock is injured in an explosion. Sherlock must go through a long and painful recovery, aided by his army doctor, John Watson. Potential JohnLock, so I'll adjust the rating as necessary.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a role-play between myself and the lovely MsCrumblebread. I wrote for Sherlock and she wrote for John.**

**I didn't have a beta, so any mistakes are mine.**

**It stops suddenly due to time constraints, but we hope to continue it in the near future.**

**Please leave some comments to let me know what you think.**

**Credit for the plot goes to MsCrumblebread.**

[Somewhere in Europe, November - 1940]  
>When the war began, John wanted to do everything he could to help, and with his doctor degree he was able to do a lot. He volunteered as an army doctor and enjoyed it. Sure it was draining to see the pain and injuries caused by the war, but he was happy he was able to help. John was currently working in the medical tent of an army base a few miles away from a battlefield. Soldiers and hurt civilians came through there daily with all kinds of injuries and problems, John did his best to make sure his skill helped most of them. Luckily for him, today was a fairly quiet day...well, for now at least.<p>

The moment he and his friends had been waiting for had finally come. Sherlock had been called to the front line after months of waiting to get into action. To fight for his country. What could be nobler? Before he knew it, he was in the back of a truck being taken to the English Channel to board the boat to be taken to the north of France. His friends had been with him the whole journey. They were together when they signed up, when they collected their uniforms and when they had their medical exams, but he knew that in a matter of hours, they would be separated. He would stay with only one of them, and that was if he was very lucky.

John had finished all his chores, for now. He had checked on the patients and changed a few bandages etc. But he knew that there was supposed to be a battle nearby soon, so that would keep him busy enough when the wounded soldiers arrived. For now it was just to wait, hoping there wouldn't be as many this time. He sat by his desk and continued writing notes on each patient.

When the boat arrived on the shore of France, Sherlock and the other soldiers - they were soldiers now, not just teenage boys - were rushed out of their seats and onto the sand. They were told where each of them was being sent, and Sherlock found himself with only one of his friends: Greg, whom he'd known since he started school. Sherlock had been picked on since the moment he stepped foot into the school, but Greg stood up for him. He was the only person who ever got to know Sherlock before judging him. They were then marched inland to where Sherlock could only assume would be where they would start fighting.

John's head shot up when he heard mines and explosions from far away. It had begun. He exhaled slowly as he rubbed his forehead. "Here you go John, you need this," A kind voice said. It was John's assistant nurse, Molly. A beautiful, young girl with golden blonde hair and kind, blue eyes. She put a cup of warm tea in front of John and he smiled at her. "Thank you Molly, prepare the beds and medicines, will you?" He said, sadness in his voice.

Sherlock's platoon had been walking for hours. He could feel the blisters forming under his feet, but he figured that they weren't even half way through their walk, so he kept his head down and put up with it. He could here small blasts in the distance which he guessed to be bombs exploding, but he couldn't be sure. He'd only ever lived in a small village. You can't get much more secluded than that. A few more hours passed, and Sherlock realised that they hadn't come across a civilian in many miles. They must be getting close. No one would choose to stay living near a war zone. The blasts were getting louder, the clouds were getting darker, and the ground was getting muddier. Sherlock was beginning to wonder what he'd signed himself up to.

John got up from his desk and went outside the tent to check things out. The sky around the horizon was getting black and grey, there was smoke smell and tension in the air. "Molly, do you think it'll be messy today?" John called out and Molly appeared from behind the tent, sighing. "Well, let's not hope so Doctor...let's pray for them to be safe and sound." She smiled and went inside to tend with the patients again.

Many of the troops slowed down and stared in shock as they were lead into the trench that would be there home for the foreseeable future. It was knee deep in water, rats were scurrying down the centre path, dead bodies were still lining the walls, yet to be removed, and the smell: it was indescribable. Sherlock had to duck slightly in order to be hidden by the trench wall. Sherlock caught up to Greg so they were next to each other. Greg turned his head and looked in to Sherlock's eyes. He was terrified, worry painted all over his face. They were no longer boys.

"God bless their brave souls..." John whispered to himself and nodded as he returned to the tent, it was warmer in there anyways and it was soon time to serve lunch. He was hungry but didn't really have an appetite either, thinking of all the horrors that may be ahead of them.

"Sherlock, if I don't make it out of this..." Greg started. "Don't talk like that." Sherlock interrupted. But he replaced his slight, fake smile with one of apology, a prompt for Greg to continue. "If I don't make it out of this, tell my family that..." He trailed off as a tear came to his eye. Only now did he truly understand what war was about. That some people didn't get to go home in the end. Sherlock looked up when Greg didn't finish his sentence. "I know." Sherlock tried to reassure him. The corporal then started shouting to get the soldiers' attention. "We've been at war for a year now, and I want to ensure it doesn't go any further. On my signal, you'll climb up the ladders, one after another, as quickly as you can. We'll take them by surprise. It's our best chance of advancing." Greg and Sherlock looked at each other and nodded in agreement. They would look out for each other in any way necessary.

John bit his lower lip nervously and kept gazing at the clock by the side of his desk. Soon. Soon young men, boys were to go out and fight. Fight for their country with pride. Some will never return and some will, but perhaps not the same as they once were. People change in war and John knows all about it.

Everything went into slow motion. Greg was half way up the ladder when the corporal was shouting in Sherlock's ear to get up the ladder, but it sounded so distant, merging with the sound of bullets and land mines, echoing around his head. He clambered up the ladder, getting mud all over his hands, but not caring, just reaching for a good grip on his gun and pulling it up in front of him. He stayed as close behind Greg as he could, but had to doge explosions which made it difficult. Sherlock ran as fast as he could, no idea what he was supposed to do. He was only eighteen, no worldly knowledge, He didn't even fully understand why there was a war going on in the first place. He felt the vibrations of bullets through his feet and helmet, as if they were right next to him. He slipped on the mud and ended up on the floor, scrambling to get back up. He was a sitting target. He looked ahead to see Greg running towards him, but before he knew it, the loudest bang he'd ever heard erupted right before him. The last thing he saw before everything went black was Greg's face. He was scared for his life, and rightly so. Everything went black and everything slowed down.

It had been a nightmare. Chaos everywhere and people kept coming in, wounded soldiers, seriously wounded soldiers. John and Molly kept themselves busy enough. When things had calmed down and most of the patients had gotten the attendance they needed, they could finally relax some. Every soldier was unique, but there had been one that caught John's eye. Of course John himself was very young to be an army doctor but he had started earlier, and that was why this boy had caught his eyes because he must've been the same age as John. Short, curly, black hair. He had been one of the most injured, half his leg almost blown off, a few broken ribs and internal bleeding. Luckily John had been able to do his best to help him, give him enough morphine and bandage his wounds. The next morning John went over to the boy's bed, which had private closed curtains around it, John entered and his eyes fell on the wounded boy lying on the bed. "Morning," John said, friendly.

Sherlock must have been lying in the bed with his eyes half open for hours as the first thing he could remember from that morning was darkness, but now sun light filled the tent. All he felt was pain radiating through his body. He noticed the presence of someone but didn't know who it was. That was when it dawned on him: where was Greg? He tried to lift his head up to get a better view of where he was, but it just sent a wave of pain through his head, like a lightning bolt.

"Hey, hey woah... calm down," John rushed over and helped the boy back to a comfortable position. "Don't move so much, your body hasn't adjusted yet, but we're still giving you morphine." John talked calm and his voice low. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock was surprised when a man who was unknown was suddenly standing over him, pushing him gently back down onto the bed. He didn't like being man handled at the best of times, but god knew this wasn't the best of times. "Greg? Where's Greg?" Sherlock groaned, partly through pain, and partly through rebellion.

"Greg?" John frowned. "I don't know who that is, but you need to relax." John continued to speak softly. "I'm John, John Watson and I'm your doctor." He introduced himself and checked Sherlock's chart with his notes on that was hanging on the edge of his bed.

"Where am I?" Sherlock knew he was in France, and that he'd been in a war zone, but he couldn't remember what had happened. Were he and Greg separated? Were they in the same platoon? Did Greg fight or was he spared it? These were questions he knew he wouldn't get answered for a while.

"Please, sir..." John checked his notes. "Holmes, I need you to calm down...you've had a hit to your head and other places and it's very important that you remain calm, okay?"

Everything Sherlock could hear was echoed and his sight was slightly blurred. He guessed concussion from said hit to the head. "Fine, if I must." It felt as if he wasn't really in the room. He didn't feel in complete control of his own body, and he couldn't stand it. He watched the doctor as he flipped through pages on a chart. He was young. Possibly as young as Sherlock, and already in a war zone. He was professional, but obviously horrified by what was around him. It was understandable.

"Do you remember anything? Anything at all, Mr Holmes?" John asked, pulling up a chair and sitting besides the boy's bed. "And don't worry, your leg will be fine," He looked down at his heavily bandaged leg. "Luckily we didn't have to saw it off, it wasn't that damaged."

"What do you mean "saw it off"?" Sherlock raised his head and looked at his leg to see layer upon layer of bandage wrapped around his leg, completely drenched in blood. He could feel a tingling sensation but didn't realise how badly it had been damaged until he saw it. He'd only been at war for a day and he already hated it. He may not get the use of his leg back and he was in agony from the waist up. "I remember some parts of what happened. The smell." A look of discomfort painted his face at the thought. "It's sketchy. I remember going over the top, but that's about it." He groaned again, just in pain this time. Breathing felt like his chest was going to explode.

John went over to a table nearby and got a syringe, he filled it with a double doze of morphine. "Here, this'll help." He said calmly. "It might sting a bit," he warned as he pushed the needle into his upper arm skin. "You talked about a Greg, who is he?"

Sherlock flinched as the doctor injected him with painkillers, most probably. The young man was well-dressed, but grubby. He obviously didn't have the means to have a proper wash. It was unlikely he would until going home. "Gregory Lestrade. We were in the same platoon. I think I saw him just before I blacked out. Do you know what happened to him?"

"There's a list actually, I'll go check." John replied. "Stay here, I'll be right back." He went to his office desk and checked through the list for a 'Lestrade, Greg' and there he was. When he returned to Mr. Holmes he swallowed hard before clearing his throat. "I, uh- I'm sorry...but he's..."

Sherlock watched as the man walked away with purpose. He returned a bit slower. He knew what was coming, and it wasn't good news. Sherlock rolled his head away from the doctor to give himself the tiniest bit of privacy to let it sink in. His best friend was gone; he'd never see him again. The one person who understood him.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Holmes...I understand that it's hard to move on from all of this, but I give you my promise that I'll do my best to make it easier, at least medically." John sighed. Seeing the face of a broken man isn't easy, and not a man who has just lost his best friend. "Is there anything I can do for you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**As it was last time, the lovely MsCrumblebread wrote for John, while I wrote for Sherlock.**

**Please leave a comment to let me know what you think.**

"No." Sherlock said abruptly. Greg was gone and he had to get used to that, no amount of medication was going to change it. He closed his eyes as if to say that the conversation was over. He just wanted to be left alone.

John waited a few seconds, studying Mr Holmes' face. "I understand..." John nodded. "Just give us a yell if there's anything," He said before closing the curtains behind him. Once he was out of Mr Holmes' line of sight, he exhaled nervously. "God, I need a break..." John said to himself.

Sherlock wondered whether he had been rude to the young doctor, but it was only a passing thought, as he had more important things to think about right now. He'd just lost his best friend. Surely it was understandable that he'd want to be on his own. Then again, it wasn't necessary to be rude to someone who was only trying to help. Maybe he should apologise. Before he could say anything, the doctor had already turned around to walk away. Sherlock closed his eyes again and thought about what he was going to do next. It was likely he would be moved to a proper hospital, but nothing could be sure. There was a war going on, after all.

John wrote some notes on a few patients, checked on some and changed their bandages or gave them more morphine if they needed it. Outside, shells and bombs could still be heard. The sky was black and the stench was sharp, but John had gotten used to it by now. When the clock rang 12 'o clock, John got busy again because it meant lunch time. He, Molly and the other doctors prepared the food and handed the plates around. John got a plate and decided to go check on Mr Holmes. "Excuse me?" He said, before slowly pushing the curtains aside and stepping inside. "It's- uh lunch."

Sherlock had been in a light sleep so it took him a moment to realise someone was trying to talk to him. He looked over to see Doctor Watson again. Hi sighed, but subtly enough to not be noticed. The short man was holding a tray with a meal on it which didn't look all that appetising. Sherlock really didn't feel in the mood to eat anything. He just wanted to stand up and walk away, but that wasn't possible. He gestured to the foot of the bed to tell the doctor to put the tray down there.

John obeyed Mr Holmes' wish and put the tray on the foot of the bed. He gave a nod and a polite smile before turning to go. "Enjoy," He said.

Sherlock flashed a small smile at the man and thanked him, even if it wasn't whole-hearted. "Wait" he said, trying to stop the man. He swallowed, trying to stall for a moment to gather his thoughts. "I apologise. If I've been... cold." Sherlock didn't know what else to say. Most people usually just had a go at him and stormed off. This man was different. It seemed like he was looking for approval, but Sherlock couldn't tell. He'd never had someone stick around long enough to understand normal social interactions.

John let out a soft but reassuring laugh. "You're joking right?" He scoffed and crossed his arms. "We're at war, Mr Holmes...don't you think I'm used to people changing and all of that? You just lost someone you cared about, I don't expect you to be all happy and cheery, I understand...just eat your food, I'll be fine." He smiled sweetly and bit his lower lip. There was something. Something deep and intelligent behind the young boy's eyes.

Sherlock nodded slightly and a small understanding smile crept onto his face. He had been stupid to think that one man's actions could make a difference. Especially during a war. Sherlock glared at the tray of food and had no intention of eating it. Any of it. Even if he was hungry, he wouldn't go anywhere near that tray with a ten foot barge pole. It looked like it had been dug up. "I understand." He then put an emotionless look on his face, so as not to give anything away.

John nodded. He understood. They both did, somehow. "I know it looks like shit, but you need to eat it...you need the nutrition." John said and left.

Sherlock was surprised by the man's actions. He had no chance to retaliate as he'd just walked away. He must have been staring at the tray for ten minutes before lifting himself up to reach for it. He prodded at it for another five minutes with the fork before actually taking a bite. It wasn't awful, but by no means was it good. He'd only taken a few mouthfuls before he felt ill from the food, so he stopped. He lay back down and waited for a doctor or nurse to return.

John couldn't get Mr Holmes out of his head. He wanted to know more about him, wanted to know what he's been through and what he's interested in. At this point John couldn't understand his feelings, so he tried his best to ignore them for now. Every now and then, John tried to get up with excuses to go check on Mr Holmes.

Sherlock was starting to get bored. There was nothing to occupy him. He wanted a puzzle. Something to get him thinking. Even a book would do, but he wouldn't even be able to hold it up. It was painfully unsatisfying having a body that couldn't do what you wanted it to in order to keep up with your mind. He found himself wanting the doctor to come back just so he had a change of scenery. Looking at the curtains surrounding his bed was extremely boring.

This time John didn't have to come up with an excuse to visit Mr Holmes, because it was now time for the daily dose of medicine and morphine. He prepared a tray of pills and syringes and walked up to Mr Holmes' bed. "Just your medicines, here you go," John handed him a small paper cup full of different pills and another cup of water. While Mr Holmes swallowed the pills, John prepared the morphine syringe.

Sherlock was relieved to see the doctor round the corner of the curtains, even if it was to give him pills and injections. "Oooh, a gift. I am lucky." Sherlock said sarcastically. It was the first time he'd said anything to the Doctor that wasn't rude or selfish.

John just laughed and gave him the morphine he needed. "So, where are you from Mr Holmes?" John asked, walking over to Mr Holmes' wounded leg to examine it.

Sherlock was taken aback. The doctor had laughed at him, and he wasn't even trying to be funny. He took note that he should try again later to see if he could replicate it. He wondered about the relevance of the question that had just been asked, but assumed it was a social convention and complied. "London. Just north of the river. Yourself?" He wasn't really interested, but he didn't want to be rude again. The doctor could be useful.

"Dover," John replied. "Do you mind?" He asked as he motioned with his hands if it was okay for him to examine and touch his wounded leg.

Sherlock waved his hand to his leg to give permission. "I can't say I've ever been there." Sherlock winced as the doctor examined his leg, unwrapping the bandages. He knew it would hurt, but not this much. He'd only been at war for a few hours and he was already an invalid.

"Not everyone goes there either, there's not really much to see." John replied and he realized that they were actually chatting, like proper small talk and he usually never did that with the wounded soldiers that came in. Mr Holmes was different though. "Mmm, it won't take too long until this will heal."

"Marvellous." Sherlock said, part sarcastically, part disgruntled. If he had his own way, it wouldn't have been damaged in the first place, then he could just walk away now. "I don't suppose you have any paper and pencils around here? I'm finding it rather a challenge to entertain myself."

John looked up at him, trying to see if he was joking or not. When he found out he wasn't, he frowned. "I'm surprised, people around here don't usually ask for things to entertain them...they usually just lie around and get depressed on purpose because they wanna feel sorry for themselves." John shrugged but left and returned shortly with a short stack of papers and a pencil.

"Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the young doctor's comment. It was bizarre to Sherlock to think that people would make themselves depressed on purpose. He noted that the doctor had a sense of humour, but not in an immature sense. He also didn't seem to be phased by all of the horrific injuries he saw. it was as if he had many years of experience, but he was only young. This was not a common find. "How long have you been a doctor?" Sherlock asked. The doctor seemed to be rather bored. He'd already found three excuses that day to check on Sherlock.

"Three years, I graduated at the age of 17. I was youngest in my class actually," John said with a chuckle. Thinking of medical school brought back old memories. He got a wet cloth from the night table. "This might sting," He said and gently began rinsing Mr Holmes' flesh wound. "Can I ask for your name? I mean my charts only show your last name so..."

Sherlock thought about what the doctor had just said. Seventeen? So he knew what he was talking about. Sherlock winced again as his wound was cleaned. It was necessary, so he persevered. "You say "might", but you mean "will"." Sherlock stared at the doctor to scold him slightly. "Sherlock. And yours? If you don't mind my asking."

'Sherlock' John mouthed, just to see how the name felt on his lips. "John," He replied and finished cleaning up Sherlock's wound. He added a new bandage. "There, you're all set...well not to go or anything, but you're all set so you won't get any infections or anything."

"Thank you. If you don't mind, I'm going to..." Sherlock trailed off mid-sentence. He lost all concentration from the conversation. "I feel very light-headed. I think... I-I.." Sherlock's head dropped back suddenly and his eyes closed. His skin went very pale and cold.

"Sherlock?" John rushed forward, eyes alert. "Sher- Sherlock!?" He put his two fingers under Sherlock's jaw line, searching for a pulse. There was one, but it was fading. "Molly! I need emergency assistance now!" John shouted, gently slapping Sherlock's cheeks, trying to keep him awake. "Molly! Hurry up!"

Sherlock was vaguely aware of what was going on. It was like he was standing next to the bed and watching, but not understanding. He felt a breeze rush past him and he shuddered. He looked at his own body, examining every inch of it. Not that it was any help to anyone if he found anything.

Molly came rushing in and she and John began working. "We need to move fast, his pulse is slowing down. I was talking to him and he just faded, it could be blood loss but I'm not sure, just ready the medicines!" John shouted commandos all over and they both stressed around. "He's not responding...fuck! Why isn't he responding?!" John said and began. "Okay, okay let's just- I need to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation," John said and Molly nodded. He placed both his hands on top of Sherlock's chest and began pumping up and down in a rhythm. "Come on, Sherlock, come on! I know you can do this," John whispered.

Sherlock watched John do his job, stressing out at the sudden change of events but partly enjoying the rush. The thrill of having someone's life on his hands. Sherlock knew he'd be able to bring him back, but something made him not want to go back. He wanted to stay as a shadow in the world.


End file.
